


Telemachus

by rachelindeed



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mythology - Freeform, Post-Finale, this is what literature professors do after the end of the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are echoes of him in ancient stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telemachus

The air in the tent was sweltering, addictive after the chill of space, and though it was impractical he kept his jacket on. It felt important to keep formality on display at the head of the classroom. He’d hoped to arrange a few more stumps and logs along the ground before his students arrived, but after a bare minute of effort sweat was rolling down his face and leeching through his ancient, threadbare tweed. 

“Do you need a hand, professor?” 

He glanced up to see a stranger. The man seemed little more than half his age, and was probably even younger. The network of lines around his eyes looked new, most likely drawn by the glare of sunlight. In their first weeks on this world they’d all stumbled through the noontides like moles, and even now some kept to the shade of tents and forests, unable to adjust. The pallor had long since burnt away from this man, though. Dark hair was bleaching fair, and his hands were steady as he lifted one end of the timber the professor had struggled with. 

He nodded his thanks and huffed, “For the students. To sit.” 

“Of course.” The young man made short work of the mess strewn across the grass, lining up makeshift rows and shifting the smoothest husks of wood toward the front where the youngest children would gather. 

“That’s perfect, thank you,” the professor said, lowering himself to the ground and tilting his head in the direction of a slight, perhaps imaginary, breeze. “I’m so glad you happened to be passing, sir.” 

“It’s Lee,” the young man said and offered his hand. 

“Andreas,” he answered, reaching up in kind. “Andreas Renin.” 

“My pleasure, professor.” 

He shrugged. “The title seems silly, now. But what brings you to these parts? We haven’t seen an unfamiliar face since we settled.” 

“I’ve been touring the villages in the area; they mentioned in New Atlantis that you were starting your school year this week, and I was curious. I wanted to stop by, see if there was anything you needed.” 

“Well, as you see, we’re lacking in traditional supplies, up to and including paper. But I don’t think anyone has much of that lying about these days, and even if they did, it’s only a short-term solution. So I’ve been focusing on oral narrative.” 

“Reciting the Scriptures, you mean?” 

“Epic poetry, actually. You’d be surprised how quickly the children pick it up, especially once you get to the monsters and battles.” 

Lee smiled. “I’m sure.” 

“But I’d like to teach them to understand, not just to memorize. So we’ll be talking about symbols, alternate points of view and such.” 

Lee lowered himself to the earth and stretched his legs forward, letting his eyes wander over the squalid schoolroom. He spoke gently. “Sounds interesting, though I’ll admit literature was never my strong suit. Have you found a copy of one of the epics?” 

Renin pulled a crumbling edition of _The Adventures of Odysseus_ from his creaky leather bag, running a thumb across its face with reverence. 

“It was the book I brought on my flight home to Picon. I was always careful, you know, in choosing my travel reading – I always thought about what would fit my mood and hold my attention, and I had such a wealth of choice in those days.” He shifted slightly, remembering. “It seemed a pleasant joke, to read of journeys on my journey. For a long time after the Fall, I couldn’t think that way at all. It seemed an insult, somehow, to taint real tragedy with fiction. But in time I lost myself in the voyage again. It comforted me, it really did. I’ve practically memorized it myself now.” 

The conversation faltered. Then Lee seemed to shake himself and cast about for the lost thread. “And which character would you choose to focus on? Which point of view?” 

“Telemachus,” Renin said, without hesitation. 

“Ah. The son.” 

“Indeed. You know the fable?” 

“I went to school once, too,” Lee teased. 

Renin smiled, warming to his subject. “I always felt Telemachus was rather underrated. He’s faced with such ordinary suffering that he gets lost in the more spectacular drama of his parents. But when you think about it, he grows up without a father, struggling beside a mother he cannot free from misery. He’s seen only as the dim reflection of a distant hero. But he has wisdom, and steadiness, and a craftiness his father lacks for all his talk of cunning. For Odysseus, triumph comes in the kill, but his family fought for years far less directly. 

And when Telemachus falters, it’s Athena who guides him – spear sharp and sun bright, with no patience for fools. She covers her radiance to spare his mortal sight, but that’s the only mercy she offers. She’s the goddess of truth, which makes her ruthless, and he loves her because he can love nothing less. People always assume that he’s soft because he’s young and he wasn’t born for war. But he’s not; he’s not at all.” 

The young man was watching him as if his words mattered, blue eyes turned to grey. “And what would have become of him, do you think,” he asked slowly, “if he’d joined his father’s voyage?” 

Renin frowned, somewhat taken aback. “I’d never really thought about it. I suspect they’d have killed each other.” 

The jerk of a sudden, spasmodic laugh turned Lee’s face away. 

Renin pursued the thought. “But I don’t think he’d fit into that kind of quest, to be honest. He stands for deliberation and civilization and a sort of dogged, domestic courage. You’d ruin that if you tried to shove him into the conquering hero mold. Call him an archetype if you will, but dramatic convention is there for a reason. His virtues are the kind that grow in isolation; they belong to people who’ve had time – too much time – for thought. He doesn’t belong at the heart of the action.” 

“He might surprise you.” Lee’s eyes were downcast, but he sounded sure. 

“Perhaps. Did you know, in some versions of the legend it’s said that Odysseus never learned to rest; that he departed again on some final adventure without a backward glance and left his kingship and country to Telemachus? It makes perfect sense, in its way. The story repeats.” Renin nodded. “He was meant to be left behind.” 

Lee didn’t move. His face closed. 

“No one’s meant to be left behind,” he said, the anger so contained it sounded like sorrow. “If you teach your students anything, teach them that.”


End file.
